Everyone is leaving or moving. I feel like I am standing still, even though I am moving too. We put the beautiful old oak table my mother gave us up on casters. It's perfect. My sister is in Cameroon, trying to learn the local dialect, drinking beer in the square, working with the fifty wives of the local chief. My parents are in Madrid for a few days before they head on to Italy, where they'll be through the summer. I am in my office. One friend's email offers her room for sublet (she is moving to Israel), another friend's email announces she has moved from Washington Heights to the Upper East Side (we are out of touch; I wonder if she's making lots more money, suddenly). I am in my office. Yesterday I could not help buying fruit; a pound of cherries and a pound and a half of grapes cost $9; the cherries were gone before we reached home. There is a brightness to the sweet of fruit that is never cloying. It is summer. I bought sundresses and open-toed flats. Should we go to IKEA this weekend or wait until the Red Hook one opens next week? My intern asked me what my secret talent is; I said that I don't have one. (This was a lie, so I mumbled about writing things.) (I could never say, I am a writer. I am not working on a novel. I am not working on anything, except work, sort of. I think I am stagnating.) (Please, don't let me stagnate.) Two or three nights ago, I emerged from the train station just as the heat-breaking rain was ending, and a cool breeze came down Eastern Parkway, and all the people coming up from underground sighed together in pleasure.